


Curvaceous Crab

by FandomN00b



Series: Brief Studies on the Nature of Stealth [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: (in the context of doing blood magic), F/F, Self-Harm, pre-relationship Merribela
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27001120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomN00b/pseuds/FandomN00b
Summary: Isabela, infamous pirate, (mostly) loyal friend, realizes she can't just shake her daggers at everything to make it go away.
Relationships: (pre-relationship), Isabela/Merrill (Dragon Age)
Series: Brief Studies on the Nature of Stealth [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638937
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	Curvaceous Crab

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly cobbled together from Wikipedia:
> 
> Lybia is a genus of small crabs in the family Xanthidae. Their common names include boxer crabs, boxing crabs and pom-pom crabs. They are notable for their mutualism with sea anemones, which they hold in their claws for defense and intimidation. In return, the anemones get carried around and cultivated by the crabs, which may enable them to capture more food particles with their tentacles. Crabs rarely are seen with only one anemone, as they have been observed carefully tearing anemones from one claw or another crab into two, taking advantage of the anemone's ability to regenerate and regrow asexually.
> 
> <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lybia>

Isabela doesn’t so much stalk her prey as she waves something shiny in their faces and waits until they’re close enough to realize it’s a bejeweled claw brandishing an even deadlier weapon, probably pilfered from her last foe. Oh, and there’s usually another waiting behind her back to strike them just outside of their peripheral vision. 

Her current daggers were actually melted down, recast, and rehoned from an idiotic long sword she won off her last great conquest. 

She always takes excellent care of her blades, however she comes by them. And they usually return the favor, seeming to enjoy the way she makes them sing far better than their previous wielder, as she slices through the air with such quick, elegant arcs. They seem almost _hungry_ for the blood they find themselves coated in from time to time, when such things become necessary. And the poison she applies to them every morning, one of the few rituals she maintains when she isn’t on a ship, certainly doesn’t hurt her odds in combat, or, more precisely, shortly after it, either, assuming she’s prepared the fast-acting kind, not that slow-painful-death kind she only uses on the people she _really_ doesn’t like. 

But something is off tonight. Her daggers feel heavier than usual, less alive. Like they’re trying to tell her something. _There is danger here that we may not be able to protect you from._

She hums and sidles across the floor of the Hanged Man, sliding in sideways to the table she has taken to sharing with her new cast of friends, a bit disappointed that it’s empty. Their regular game of Wicked Grace has usually begun by now. Ah, well, that figures. Everyone lets you down eventually, right? 

Not her daggers. She pats them with gratitude at her back and they seem to hum back in quiet mutual appreciation, as she waits for Norah to bring her first three shots of rum. 

There’s a sudden bustle of activity at the back door, and Varric comes rushing through, looking madly about. 

His eyes fix on her, but _she's_ not the one he's looking for. “Have you seen Anders?” 

“You mean _Blondie_?” Isabela knows something must be really off if Varric’s foregone the use of their nicknames. Probably Hawke got herself stabbed again. 

“Yes!” He exclaims impatiently. 

“Haven’t seen him.” She shakes her head. “What’s up?” 

“It’s…” He looks at her apologetically now. “It’s Merrill.” 

Isabela rolls her eyes to hide the sudden stutter of panic in her chest. “Let me just get my bandages and the healing salves…” 

Varric shakes his head. “Probably gonna need more than that.” 

Isabela’s daggers seem to vibrate at her back. She begins to reach for them without even realizing it. Who is she going to fight? Merrill’s probably done it to herself trying to do whatever it is she’s been trying to do with that blighted mirror. 

“Is she in your suite?” 

Varric nods. “Hawke and Fenris helped me bring her inside. We found her in the alley out back…” 

“In the _alley_?”

“She usually comes in through the back...says it’s easier for her to remember the way from the Alienage. Should I send Hawke to go get Anders, or…?”

Isabela has somehow managed to cycle from shock to anger and her heart clenches again. She storms out without another word, in search of the mage, and Maker help anyone who dares to get in her way.

…

“I’m fine! Just messed up a healing spell…”

Merrill is sitting up, some of the pinkness has returned to her face, and Isabela finally dares to come an inch closer to get a better look at her, to see her giant saucer eyes looking up apologetically as Anders fusses over her like a mother hen. 

When she’d returned, dragging Anders back with zero explanation, just a threatening wave of her daggers to compel him to move as fast as his long lanky legs could take him from his clinic in Darktown up to the Hanged Man, Merrill had looked far too close to dead for Isabela’s liking, laying there with her hands and wrists and arms wrapped in blood-soaked rags torn from whatever Hawke and Fenris and Varric could get their hands on. She'd hung back in the doorway, preferring the option to flee or to pace the hallway, at least, if things got worse.

But Anders -- or was it Justice? -- had done what he does best, and brought her back from the brink of death, his own symbiotic relationship with the spirit proving far more useful than her and her poisoned daggers in this situation.

“I don’t know _what_ you did, but _please_ …” Anders tuts, as he waves his hands over the old and new scars of her magic and they _mostly_ disappear, though Isabela remembers each and every one of them like knicks in her blades. “If you could avoid doing it ever again…”

“Daisy,” Varric tries to take over with the admonishments. At least he is back to nicknames. “You’ve got to be more careful. If the Templars had found you like that -- ”

“She’d be lucky to have survived, and if she had, she’d have been locked away for her own good,” Fenris grumbles. “A threat to herself and others.”

Merrill scowls at him, and Anders turns to do the same. At least they can agree on this. 

Isabela smirks. Her daggers don’t even react to his bristling condemnations. She knows Fenris harbors a soft spot for them both. Merrill is the sister he never had or can’t remember, and Anders...well, she catches him staring far more often than he’d ever care to admit.

“Kitten,” she purrs, and Merrill’s eyes light up, Fenris’ slight completely forgotten for the empty thing that it is. “Do you think you’re well enough for a game of Wicked Grace?”

“I don’t think…” Anders, or most definitely Justice begins to object.

“Yes!” Merrill exclaims, beaming up at her from Varric’s bed, still surrounded by bloody rags, but looking suddenly even pinker and shinier than usual. “Tonight is our night, isn’t it!? And it’s _my_ turn to win!”

“Indeed…” Isabela beams back. “Varric? Mind if we use your suite?”

“I guess I don’t have much of a choice,” he mutters as Hawke returns, balancing a tray full of drinks.

“Told Norah we’d be in here tonight!” she informs him, with a wink and a nod to Isabela, who grabs a shot glass in each hand, and downs them immediately.


End file.
